N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(80)

I hope you find happiness, and I’m sorry. For taking the coward’s way out. For not being who you deserved. For all the wrong I’ve done.

-Jared



* * *



“It was Yuli who drained my account and wanted me to suffer. She said as much,” I say to Nine, who reads the letter over my shoulder. “It wasn’t Jared.”

“So, when he said that his scheme was his girlfriend’s idea, he wasn’t even talking about you.”

“No, he was talking about Yuli.”

Nine folds up the letter, “I hate him a little less now, even though he’s still a fucking coward, but one who cared about you, in his own way. That is the one thing I can’t fault him for.”

I shrug. “I guess, but it doesn’t change anything. You and your friends and the MC are still out a couple of million dollars. You can’t invest in your brother’s company like you wanted.”

He doesn’t seem fazed by my mention of the money, but the truth is it keeps me up most nights. “But does it help? Does it give you some sort of closure?” he asks.

I think for a moment. “Yeah, it does. In a way, but I already had my closure, through golf club therapy.”

Nine smiles and presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. “Then, it’s all that matters.” He picks up the other envelope and tears it open. It’s some sort of official-looking notice from Mutual of America. His eyes go wide.

“What is it?” I ask, fearing what else could possibly go wrong.

He hands the document to me, and it doesn’t take me long to understand the reason behind Nine’s surprised reaction. It’s a life insurance policy Jared had taken out years ago on himself. It states something about his parents who had him declared missing and legally presumed dead and something else about the enclosed death certificate, but that’s not what’s shocking. The benefits, in the amount of three million dollars, are to be paid out at the time of his death to the beneficiary.

I gasp and cover my mouth when I get to the bottom of the page and read the name.

The beneficiary is me.





Epilogue





LENNY





Another month later…


I use Jared’s money to pay back Nine and his friends. At first, Nine refused, promising he’d find some way to pay them back himself, but I told him it was either that or I was tossing the bank check from the top of the causeway.

He gave in.

The remainder of the money was used to donate to a charity, supporting foster children and the volunteers like Nine who represent them in court. A few more training sessions and I will be a guardian of the court as well.

We’re standing in front of one of Dre’s most recent renovation projects. It’s a perfect little old Florida style bungalow with flower boxes and a white fence and I’m in awe of her work. It’s perfect in every way. No detail spared.

“It’s incredible,” I say. “But where’s Dre? Isn’t she meeting us here? I thought she wanted my opinion on the value?”

I turn around to face Nine who's holding up a key.

“No, she didn’t want to wait around and witness what I’m going to do to you inside.” His voice is dark and full of wicked promise.

I shiver under the blazing heat of the sun and his words. “I don’t think she wants us messing around in her house.”

He grins and pulls me to his chest. “It’s not her house. It’s ours.”

“How?”

“Easy. I invested in my brother’s company and had money left over, but I knew before Dre was even done with this place that I would buy it someday for you. So, I did.”

“I can’t believe it. I’m…” I press my hand to his smooth cheek. He leans in and kisses the scars on my palm. It’s him I’m looking at when I say, “I’m home.”

He guides me to the front door, and I open the door to paradise. A clean, contemporary take on a traditional home. Light grey wood floors. White shaker style cabinets, granite counters, and a large metal farm sink on the kitchen island with seating for four.

“Is this what you imagined would happen when you first started stalking me?” I ask Nine as he follows me from room to room while I explore. The master bathroom has a clawfoot tub and small white octagon tile on the floors and walls.

“Stalking is such a strong word. I prefer tracking with interest,” he says with a shrug.

“That's the very definition of stalking,” I argue, turning to him I cross my arms over my chest in challenge. “Try again.”

He raises on the balls of his feet then drops down again. The movement causes rogue strands of hair to fall over his eye. He shakes them away. “What phrase would you prefer?” He takes a step closer. His smile widens. “Pursuing with passion? Hunting with hope?” He reaches out, and I watch as he trails the pads of his index and middle finger up my bare arm.

A shiver erupts within my spine, shaking me to my very core. I fight the urge to close my eyes at the sensation.

His voice is deep yet amused. “Trailing with a trigger?”

“You're not making it any better,” I manage to say, after having to clear my throat to get the words out. My muddled thoughts still focused on the sensation of stroking fingers across my sensitive skin.